


Beauty

by DeadlyCrocker



Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Body Worship, Feminization, Other, Praise Kink, Reader-Insert, gender neutral reader, i guess?, or it COULD be depending on ur gender at least
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-14
Updated: 2015-11-14
Packaged: 2018-05-01 13:24:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 821
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5207456
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DeadlyCrocker/pseuds/DeadlyCrocker
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mettaton does your makeup before a show.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Beauty

You can hardly believe that you’re about to co-star beside Mettaton on one of his _many_ television shows. You’re still getting over the initial shock when he reveals a small kink in the backstage preparation; He’s a robot. You know that already, of course, but you hadn’t considered the full implications. His own makeup is permanently painted onto his face. As such, he doesn’t keep a makeup artist on hand. He’ll be doing your makeup himself, he announces.

It doesn’t sound like he has much of experience, but he’s quick to reassure you, “trust me, dear. I _know_ what looks good.”

You’re nervous enough about interacting with the star already. The addition of your too small dressing room, and the fact that your shirt has to be removed to keep falling eyeshadow from staining it, only makes your heart pound faster.

You sit in the small chair in front of the mirror, Mettaton straddling your lap. A cool metal hand is under your chin, tilting your head up at just the right angle. You don’t want to _stare,_ but it’s difficult not to with his face so close to yours. Your eyes drift from his own pink ones, to his perfectly curved nose, to his plump lips. Those _can’t_ be metal. He bites at his bottom lip, and the way his sharp teeth press into the synthetic flesh verify your suspicion. They might be vinyl… You’re tempted to touch and find out.

“Close your eyes, darling.” You’re grateful for the escape from staring nervously at the robot. A soft makeup brush swipes over your eyelids, leaving a soft trail of glittery powder behind. The same is done to your brow bone, in what you assume is a more subtle color. More pressure is applied just below the bone, a thick line in the crease, followed by the soft caress of a sponge blending it in.

“Open up, sweetheart.” Your eyes flutter open and you see that he’s smiling, gazing at his work almost _lovingly._ You blush at the thought that he’s looking at _you_ with that expression. He’s tracing over your eyebrows with a thin brush; gently, precisely. “Such a gorgeous face… you’re almost making this _too_ easy for me. So many lovely features to draw the crowds attention to...”

He lines your eyes, top and bottom, sweeping through your eyelashes with a mascara wand. You’re proud that you only flinch _a little bit_ when he runs the pencil along your waterline. “Such big, beautiful, eyes, darling… And such long lashes… You really were _made_ for the stage, weren’t you?”

He shifts in your lap, warm metal grinding against you. You gasp lightly, but you don’t think he notices, looking elsewhere as he dips a soft sponge in foundation. He strokes it over your forehead, along your cheeks, down your jawline. The hand that had previously been resting against your cheek moves downward as well, slipping out of the way bit by bit until coming to a rest on the back of your head. Long fingers tangle in your hair, supporting your head and holding it steady.

He lightly dusts your face with one powder after another. You have a feeling that at least one of them is blush, though you aren’t paying too much attention to the products he’s using. He’s biting at his bottom lip again, and you’re cursing the scientist who gave him _fangs_ along with such full lips.

“We’re almost done, dear.” A thumb glides over your own bottom lip, gently pressing downwards. “Open that pretty mouth for me, darling.”

You promptly comply, and before you know it he’s lining your lips. His fingertips occasionally drift to your lips, stretching the flesh taut or opening your mouth wider. Then, in a few long, smooth, strokes, your lips are coated in the creamy lipstick.

He places his hands on your shoulders once he’s set the lipstick aside, admiring his handiwork. A smirk plays at his lips. “That lipstick is really your color, darling. It’ll be a shame to see it get so smeared later.”

He sees the flustered confusion on your face, quick to elaborate. “After all, someone as beautiful as you is sure to have _plenty_ of admirers waiting around after the show. I’m sure you could go home with anyone you’d like.”

He’s eyeing you hungrily now, and you just _know_ he must be imagining how it would taste to kiss the pigment right off your lips. A hand slides up from your shoulder, playing with a lock of your hair as he emphasizes. _“Anyone at all._ Don’t feel that you have to settle for the _audience.”_

He stands up before you can find the words the respond. It’s probably for the best; you’re a bit too starstruck to meet his levels of charm.

He looks over his shoulder one last time as he opens the dressing room door. “You’re on in five, dear. Get ready.”

 


End file.
